Chapter One #2
Drawing open the curtains and stretching in front of the exquisite view whilst taking in the sun’s rays had become part of Nate’s early morning routine since he’d moved to Westmorland.
And when he did so this morning, he saw Bridget running through the field of daffodils with Bijou under her arm.
Then he watched her fall. Bijou flew out of her arms and rolled, then he turned and rushed back to Bridget, barking madly.
One minute she’d been standing on her own two feet, and the next she was on the ground. Had she fainted?
The fact that he was in a state of undress did not stop Nate from rushing outside to her aid. He threw on his trousers and shirt, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and ordered his startled valet, who’d just brought in his morning tea, to fetch the smelling salts before he raced outside.
Bijou circled Bridget, pawing at her body and whining.
“I’m coming,” Nate called. “Don’t worry. I’m here now,” he said as he approached Bridget and Bijou, but a murder of crows in the daffodils momentarily distracted him. What is going on there?
He glanced at Bridget, and seeing the rise and fall of her chest, breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he strode forward into the daffodils, and what he saw there set the ground swaying beneath his own feet.
A dead man lay among the flowers. Crows swarmed his chest, pecking and pulling at what looked to be his insides.
The gruesome sight almost sent Nate to the ground alongside Bridget.
He’d seen dead bodies before, but none as grim as this.
When Nate saw Bennett race toward him with the smelling salts, he sprinted forward and intercepted the man, not wanting him to witness the horrific sight. “Run and send for Magistrate Hunt. Then, bring me a sheet.”
“A sheet, sir?” Bennett craned his neck to see behind Nate.
“Yes, a sheet. No! Make that two sheets—thick ones,” he said, snatching the smelling salts from his valet’s hand.
“Is the young lady—”
“She’ll be fine! Go now!” Nate barked, giving Bennett a light push. “The magistrate and the sheets—run!”
“Yes, sir.” Bennett’s brown eyes grew wide. Then he turned and raced toward the villa.
Nate went to Bridget’s side and placed the smelling salts under her pert nose. Her nostrils flared, and then her eyes opened. As always, Nate was taken aback by their pale blue loveliness. He felt a pleasurable flutter in his stomach, followed by an immediate sense of relief.
“Nate!” She blinked. “Oh, thank heavens! I…” She sat up and turned to look at the body in the daffodils.
“Good grief, he’s still there.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I wasn’t imagining things!
It’s so horrible. Oh, Nate. Over there.” She pointed to the daffodils now swarming with crows. “George is dead!”
George Otis. The poet? So that’s who lies in the field. “I know,” Nate said, shielding Bridget from the horror with his body. “Don’t look again. It’s too terrible. I’ve sent for Magistrate Hunt.”
*
“The killer took his heart.” Magistrate Hunt knelt next to Otis’s body and inspected the wound as Nate watched.
Although sickened by the sight, he found he could not turn away.
Who would do such a thing to another human being?
He looks like a butchered animal. Nate dared not say the words out loud for Bridget’s sake.
She stood with her back to the body, cradling Bijou.
Nate ached for her. She’d suffered tremendous losses already, and she’d been fond of the young poet. He hated that she hurt.
“But that’s not what killed him.” Magistrate Hunt lifted Otis’s head slightly, and Nate saw the blood matted in his hair at the back of his head.
“Someone hit him with something hard—possibly a rock.” Magistrate Hunt gently placed Otis’s head back onto the ground and scanned the area.
“Here, what’s this?” He reached forward and picked up a medium-sized rock that lay nearby.
As he turned it over, Nate saw that the rock was stained with blood.
“This is what ended him. It’s not heavy, mind you.
But with enough force, it could be lethal.
I’d say the killer smashed his skull with this rock and took his heart after that. ”
Bizarrely, Nate felt some sort of relief at hearing that.
He loathed to think that Otis—or any living creature—would have to endure having his heart torn from his chest while still conscious.
Then again, it made sense that he had not been alive.
Young and strong, Otis would likely have fought hard to save his life had he seen his assailant coming for him.
But he’d been hit from behind—taken by surprise—and so had no chance to fight for his life.
Whoever murdered Otis was a vicious killer.
Someone extremely dangerous was on the loose—someone who’d been on their front lawn mere hours before.
*
“It’s a bad business.” Magistrate Hunt pulled the sheets back over the victim, concealing the ugly wound in his chest cavity.
“Never seen anything like it before—such brutality. I thought I’d seen it all last summer with those two murders, but it appears this place of yours attracts death.
It’s beginning to feel as if Mr. De Lacey cursed us with his act of self-murder.
He brought darkness upon us with that act. ”
“That’s preposterous!” Nate snapped, outraged on Bridget’s behalf.
He worried for Bridget and hated that people harbored superstitions about her father’s actions.
Self-murder was tragic, but Nate did not believe it to be an eternal sin.
In this case, it had been the final act of a desperate man, one rendered hopeless by Nate’s heartless brother.
“Don’t get me wrong.” Magistrate Hunt stood and brushed the soil from his trousers. “I respected Mr. De Lacey. He was an honest man and a friend. I want to uphold his reputation and that of his home. But all this death makes one wonder…”
“Mr. Otis wasn’t even a guest here,” Nate said. “His murder had nothing to do with Villa De Lacey.”
“But he died on your land. And we can’t rule out the possibility of another killer lurking behind your walls.”
Bridget shuddered and pressed her face into Bijou’s fur.
Nate ached to comfort her, but he refrained from doing so.
They’d only known each other a year, and she was still mourning her papa.
She was essentially under his care, and she was vulnerable.
As a gentleman, he would not take advantage of that.
Bridget turned and faced Otis’s now-concealed body. “Whoever is responsible must be caught. It’s a truly monstrous act, taking a man’s heart,” she said mournfully.
Nate knew she was thinking of her papa, who’d cruelly had a stake driven through his heart after dying by his own hand.
Self-murder, according to the law, was murder.
And that was how those who took their own lives were dealt with after death.
But what terrible thing could Otis have done to deserve such a fate?
“One can only wonder why,” he murmured out loud.
“A jealous lover, perhaps?” Magistrate Hunt scratched his gray beard. “Jealousy is a powerful motive for murder. It’s my understanding you were close to the victim, Miss De Lacey. How much did you know about his life?”
“Not much. As Nate has said, he wasn’t a guest here, but he was a frequent visitor.
He and his friends are poets—admirers of Wordsworth.
They live in a small cottage about half a mile from here, between the lake and the village.
But George…Mr. Otis…often spent time at Villa De Lacey, entertaining our guests. ”
“How so?” the magistrate asked. “Did he recite poetry to them?”
“Oh yes, oftentimes. He was charming and witty. People liked being in his company. He was the type of person who was favored by everyone.”
Not everyone. Nate had seen the young man as more of a fop than a humble poet, but he refrained from expressing as much out of respect for Bridget’s feelings.
“Charming, you say?” Magistrate Hunt arched his bushy eyebrows. “Would you say he was more popular with the ladies than the gentlemen?”
“I don’t believe so. As I said, he was liked by everyone. All the guests seemed to enjoy his company. I know I did.”
Nate’s jaw tightened. The comment irked him.
He’d been wary of Bridget’s friendship with Otis.
He hadn’t entirely trusted the man. He had been, in Nate’s opinion, a rake disguised as a poet.
Otis had taken advantage of Bridget’s good nature, and he’d often supped for free at the villa as though he were a paying guest. Bridget had reasoned that the guests adored the poet and that he’d kept them entertained.
Nate knew that was only partially true. Some of the guests loved him.
Others were irritated by him. But none, as far as he knew, had a motive to murder him.
“Was that what you observed too, Mr. Squires?” the magistrate asked as if reading Nate’s thoughts.
“If you ask me, he flattered the ladies, and they enjoyed the attention,” Nate said, unable to hold back any longer.
“Was there any lady in particular he favored?”
Bridget’s forehead creased. “Well, I don’t quite know. He spent a lot of time with Lady Matheson. She’s a widow, and I think he made her feel a little less lonely.”
Nate scoffed. Lady Matheson might be a widow of middle age, but he doubted she’d ever wanted for attention.
She was, to put it mildly, a beautiful woman.
Tall and lean with a swan-like neck, high cheekbones, almond-shaped amber eyes, and a head of light-brown curls.
She never failed to capture the attention of men.
“Did this Lady Matheson have any other admirers?” Magistrate Hunt asked. “A wealthy widow is quite a prize.”
“Wealthy and beautiful,” Nate said before he could stop himself.
“Interesting.” Magistrate Hunt drummed his fingers on the back of his hand. “Did you notice any tension or rivalry between your gentlemen guests and Mr. Otis?”
“No,” Bridget said. “As I’ve already stated, Mr. Otis was well-liked. Everyone enjoyed his company. That’s why he was a frequent guest. I—we—would not have allowed a troublemaker to infiltrate our villa and mingle with our guests.”
“What about the ladies? Perhaps, one of them thought he was giving too much attention to Lady Matheson.”
“I doubt that. Mr. Otis was generous with his time. He spent time talking to all of us, including me. Even Miss Jennings seemed to open up to him,” Bridget said.
“Miss Jennings?” Magistrate Hunt lifted his brows in question.
“She’s Lady Armstrong’s companion,” Bridget said.
“A spinster, in her late twenties, I’d say,” Nate added. “She’s a shy, quiet woman—petite, too. I doubt she would kill a fly, let alone a man.”
“Hmm, yes. A young lady certainly would not have the strength or the stomach to remove a human heart. As I said before, a jealous husband or lover is far more likely our killer. Did he spend time with any other women in the house?”
“Only Mrs. Harley. You remember her from the summer. She and Mr. Harley decided to stay on as long-term guests.”
“Was she close with Mr. Otis?”
“I believe they were friends,” Bridget said.
“And Mr. Harley did not object to this friendship?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Harley’s not the jealous sort,” Nate agreed. Though he was kind to his wife, Harley’s marriage had not been a love match. It wasn’t the sort of marriage Nate envisioned for himself.
“So, no enemies for Mr. Otis, then?”
“None that I know of. He was well-liked.” Bridget continued to defend the poet. “I’ve said it many times because it’s the truth.”
“And this is your opinion too, Mr. Squires?”
“I am unaware of anyone in particular who disliked him,” Nate said casually. Aside from myself, of course.
“Well, clearly someone disliked him.” Magistrate Hunt glanced at the body. “Now, we just have to find out who and why.”